Yours is a face of which i can't forget
by tiltingaxis
Summary: She hates the subway. AU


**A/N: Random one-shot from a tumblr prompt. Consider this some pointless fluff to fluff your day =)**

* * *

She hates the subway. She's lived in New York her whole life, and has learned to submerge herself in all its vast culture and idiosyncrasies, but still. She hates the Subway. She's not sure if it's the crowd or the smell, or if it's the combination of both and her small stature. Or maybe it's the fact that she knows she's a star, and taking the subway has always felt like something that's beneath her.

She hates the pushing and the standing, the way men leer down at her, using the stifling crowd as an excuse to push themselves against her. She especially hates the way it messes with her vocal warm ups (It didn't take more than three rides for her to realize that New Yorkers do not appreciate being serenaded to at 8.30 in the morning). But, she supposes that one has to make sacrifices for fame, and if it means standing in the subway five days a week, being pushed and leered at from all sides, just to be under the tutelage of New York's finest vocal coach, then that's what it means.

She keeps her head held high, her eyes in line with the sweaty chest of the man in front of her. The evenings are the worst, when tired bodies convene in one inadequately small cart, and all the smell collected for the last nine hours fills her nostrils. She sighs, trying her best to breathe as little as possible. She feels the hand ghosting over the curve of her hips and stiffens, turning her head sharply when she feels fingers pressing against her flesh. She's surrounded by taller, bigger men who tower over her and stares nonchalantly ahead, and she's learned from experience that making a scene doesn't help at all. She looks around for a new place to stand and notices another girl huddled against the glass of the subway door. Clenching her fists, she pushes through the stifling bodies and makes her way next to the other woman.

Her face burns with anger and humiliation, and the glare she aims towards the group of men could have frozen hell twice over. She _hates_ the subway.

Xxx

She feels eyes following her ever since she entered the train, but she ignores it, because as a future star, she needs to learn to adapt to the situation of having all eyes on her. She _is_ going to be famous after all. But still, after about twenty minutes, she starts to get nervous. It's not every day that she gets to actually sit down in the subway, and maybe it's an old lady glaring at her from across the room, contempt by her uncouth behavior. Slowly, she puts her book down on her lap, pulling her head up to look. She turns her head to the left, and turns it to the right, and no one is looking at her.

It's when she's about to turn her gaze back to her novel that she catches the stare of those piercing brown eyes, aimed right at her. Startled, she immediately looks away, face flushed. She feels her heartbeats quickening at the memory of that gaze, and she almost refuses to look back up. But she didn't catch a good look at the owner of those eyes, and what if it belongs to another perverted fellow rider with a disgusting leer on his face? She shakes her head, shaking her bangs into her eyes, prepared to give her most scathing glare if that should be the case.

Brown eyes meet brown again, and her gaze zooms out this time to take in the boyish features of the young man standing a few bodies away from her. His body slouches as he stands, one hand absently holding on to the handle as he lurches forward a little when the train swerves. He's tall, very tall. He practically towers over everyone else, and that's why it's so easy for her to study his face. He's too far away for her to see it in detail, but she notes the faint blush on his skin as he looks away in embarrassment, the small mole on the right side of his face. His jaw is strong, well-defined, and so is the rest of him, from what she can see.

She realizes that _she_'s the one staring now, making him uncomfortable under her gaze and she blushes, and looks away again. Apparently she was looking more intently than she thought. She doesn't know what it is about this boy, and why she still feels his gaze boring right through her while she pretends to study the words in her book, or why her heart is skipping every alternate beat, and her skin is burning under his gaze. She doesn't understand this intense desire prickling beneath her skin, pushing her to look up again, to meet his gaze.

She does, daring herself to raise her head, shifting her eyes straight towards his.

There's silence, the intensity of his gaze tuning out every other mundane externality as she finds herself caught, trapped from his look. Her heart is jumping dangerously in her chest, her face flaming as she refuses to look away. They both stay as they are, frozen for a fraction of a second before the corners of his eyes crinkle up into the barest of smiles.

He opens his mouth, about to speak.

The loud voice breaks their focus as the train lurches to a stop, and she hears the name of her station being called. This is her stop, and as the crowd surges forward, she finds herself following, quickly standing and allowing the people to push her out of the exit. Her steps are brisk as she walks out, and once she reaches the door, she lets out a loud whoosh of breath, turning around just in time to see the doors closing.

She looks up again, catches his gaze again behind the glass doors, and holds it until the train starts to move, her feet rooted to the ground. He has moved closer, standing right in front of her previous seat.

He's still looking back at her.

It's only when she tears her gaze away that she realizes.

He's holding her book in his hands.

Xxx

She doesn't see him on her ride home.

He's not on the train on Monday, or the day after that. She takes the subway at the same time, steps into the third cart every day, and after four days, she starts to realize how ridiculous she's being. She would have thought that he's just a figment of her imagination, hadn't it been for the physical evidence of her lost paperback.

After four days, she begins to doubt her memory. Maybe she was mistaken. Maybe he hadn't been looking at her after all. Maybe it was just her overactive imagination that fooled her into imagining his piercing gaze on her. Maybe he was just a thief, and her book was really what he had been looking at. She's not entirely sure what a thief would want with her harlequin novel, but who is she to judge on some random stranger's taste in literature?

(But the color of his eyes and the way they bore right through hers are firmly seared into her memory, and she couldn't have imagined that, could she?)

xxx

On Friday she steps into the train, dead on her feet. She stayed up all night, practicing for her latest Streisand number, refusing to rest until she was pitch perfect, verbal abuse from the neighbor downstairs be damned. She didn't go to sleep until it was almost three in the morning, and at seven thirty, the idea of spending an hour standing in a jam-packed subway could not be any less appealing. She steps into the cart, eyes zeroing in on the empty seat right in the middle. From the corner of her eye, she takes into account the middle-aged (but healthy looking) woman making a beeline for the same seat.

It's in these moments, as she gracefully weaves her way around the already crowding train, that she is grateful for her small stature. Plopping down on her seat, she resists the urge to smirk, leaning her head back against the glass instead.

She promptly falls asleep in less than a minute.

She's shaken awake by an old lady sitting next to her an hour later as the train approaches her stop. Her eyes blare open at the shake of her shoulders, and she almost jumps up dramatically, terrified to have missed her stop, the thought of being late to her evaluation causing a dramatic knee-jerk reaction to freak out.

"Calm down," the woman tells her, amused as she places a reassuring hand on her thigh. "You didn't miss your station, it's just coming up."

"Oh," she says, relieved as she looks out at the familiar scenery. "Thank you so much. I- how did you know that?"

"Well, that boy told me." She stares blankly at the elderly woman, vaguely noticing the bun of her grey hair and the thick glasses she's wearing as her mind latches onto the spoken words.

"What boy?" she asks, keeping her tone neutral.

"That boy you were with, the one who was standing in front of you the whole ride."

"The tall one? With dark brown hair and freckles, and brown eyes?"

"I suppose so."

"I-" She stops talking when the train stops, looking impatiently at the exit. She sighs, shooting the lady a grateful smile as she says her goodbye. She stands, stretching her legs out before she starts to walk.

"Girly, wait!"

She turns at the tap on her shoulder to find a picture of a very proportionate woman in little clothing wrapped up in the arms of a man with even less. It's her novel.

"He told me to give this to you. I almost forgot."

"Thanks," she murmurs, reaching out for it just as the door starts to close. She rushes out, barely shouting a goodbye as she clutches it close to her chest.

Her face flushes at the thought of him. Was he looking at her while she slept? God, did she drool? Subconsciously her hand goes up to her lips, sighing in relief when she finds the area dry.

He was there. He was in the train.

Why didn't he wake her?

Xxx

Her nerves are shot to hell as she waits outside of the class, her ears straining to listen to Tina's rendition of Celine Dion and trying to gauge whether or not it's up to par with her Barbra turn. She sits on the bench, her hand reaching into her bag for a lack of better things to do. Her fingers graze against her book and she picks it out, absent-mindedly running her hand over its spine as she continues to eavesdrop.

She flips the pages of her novel, and when Tina holds her longest note yet, a piece of paper falls to the floor. She looks down at it curiously, momentarily forgetting to be dismayed by her classmate's flawless performance (It's not that she doesn't want Tina to do _well_. She just doesn't want her to do _better_). She picks it up off the floor, the slightly faded color of the ripped out paper intriguing her as she unfolds it. The words are barely legible, written in what is obviously a man's handwriting.

"She walks in beauty, like the night," she reads quietly. "Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright, meet in her aspect and her eyes."

It's poetry, as she mouths the rest of the words in silence. Her eyes skim through the poem, noting the delicacy of his words. Is he a poet? She feels her pulse quickening, reading through those words again. Is this poem for her? Is it _about_ her?

She's reminded once again of the intensity of his stare, the back of her neck heating up at the thought of his handsome face. Tina steps out of the class but she barely notices as she reads those words again for the third time.

"She walks in beauty, like the night," she mouths out loud.

His words are beautiful.

Xxx

Humming under her breath as she makes her way towards her train, she's determined that nothing will ruin her mood this evening. She passed her evaluation, surpassing Tina on almost every basis point, to which she had smiled graciously, saving her inner gloating for later. She's the best student in the class, today had just proved that, and it makes all of the subway rides and early mornings for the past year completely worth it. Besides which, she smiles almost shyly as her hands slip into the opening of her bag again, feeling for the piece of paper she had placed carefully on the inside seam. She can't be sure, but she's almost certain that even if the evaluation hadn't gone the way it did, it would probably still be a good day.

She's never had anybody notice her before. Not in _that_ way, at least. Admittedly, she's not one to put herself in the way of getting noticed, not for anything but her superior talent and one-of-a-kind voice, and although that has for years garnered her recognition (and a few tears here and there, mostly from her dear fathers), no one has ever noticed _her_. Especially not a boy. Especially not such a _handsome_ boy. She feels her face heating up again and shakes her head, trying to shake away the smile that's growing on her face.

She feels giddy, like her heart is threatening to spill over, and is this what it feels like to be one of those heroines in the romantic comedies her fathers brought her up with? Is this what it feels like to be the leading lady in all those harlequin novels she devours on her subway rides(minus the burning loins and the urge to rip his clothes off, of course. She can't be sure, but she thinks she loved the hoodie he was wearing, it looked very comfortable)? If so, it feels pretty good.

She feels light, and giggly, she feels a decidedly unwelcomed hand currently cupping her _ass_.

Whirling around immediately, her gaze meets a decidedly disgusting pair of lurid green eyes smirking down at her.

"What do you think you're doing?" she hisses angrily, shoving the hand away from her body.

"You looked like you were having a good time all by yourself there. Thought I'd join in on the fun," he says suggestively, leaning closer towards her as she backs away.

"Get away from me, you _abhorrent_ caveman!" she yells, glaring up at him while he chuckles. "Excuse me," she exclaims, turning towards the rest of the passengers. "Can you not see that this man is _accosting_ me?"

"Call me Puck," he says smoothly, putting his hands up in defense, ignoring her blatant distaste. "And lady, I was just appreciating a good behind. You shouldn't be wearing those short ass skirts if you don't want people lookin'."

"_Why_ you-"

"Cut it out dude, she's not interested."

Her eyes widen at the floating voice from behind Puck's head, cocking her head to the left to catch the owner.

She swears that her heart almost stops beating. It's him. And he's glaring at the shorter man in front of her, eyes furious, hands in fists.

"The hell are you?" Puck asks, surprised.

"Leave her alone man," he says instead, and she's rooted to the spot, eyes wide as she stares up at him.

"Hey, hey, I'm a lover, not a fighter. 'Sides, we were just talkin', right sweetheart?" Puck says, turning towards her with a wink. It snaps her out her stupor as she puts her hands on her hips and stands at full height.

"I hope you burn in hell with the rest of the subway perverts," she spits out angrily. The fact that all he does at her words is laugh and shake his head infuriates her to no end.

"Fine, fine. I get it. She's all yours man," Puck says to him, stepping away as the train comes to a stop. "I get off here anyway."

She huffs, rolling her eyes when Puck steps off the train, glaring at everyone else who does too because how dead is chivalry these days anyway?

"Are you okay?"

She turns to see him leaning down towards her in concern. Maybe not so dead after all.

"I'm fine," she says, smiling warmly up at him. Their first words to each other, and it's _magical_. "It's nothing really. I'm used to it."

"That sucks," he says bluntly, his hand coming up to steady her when the train careens slightly as it rounds a corner. His touch startles her and she hopes he can't see the blush on her face (sometimes having an olive toned complexion comes in handy). He's such a gentleman. "You should be able to use the freaking subway without some asshole pawing on you."

"You're so chivalrous." The words come out breathy and she mentally berates herself at how vapid she probably sounds. He turns red at the compliment, grabbing the back of his neck as he blushes.

"I guess my mom taught me well," he jokes weakly. They're both quiet, awkwardly staring at one another in silence. She's willing for him to say something, anything. But he doesn't. What is _wrong_ with her? Everyone she knows personally (granted, there aren't that many) tells her that she never shuts up. Why can't she find her words now?

"I um- The next stop is mine," she mumbles. He smiles then, that familiar warm turn of his lips leaving her breathless.

"I'll walk you home," he murmurs.

Xxx

"You really don't have to, you know," she says shyly as they walk side by side under the darkening sky. "I'm used to walking home alone."

"I know," he shrugs. "I'm just trying to be chivalrous."

She chuckles at his joke, her hand once again going to the piece of paper in her bag. She casts a sidelong glance at him, noting his lanky frame, the way his hands are shoved deep in his pockets as he looks ahead.

"I have something that belongs to you," she pipes up, stopping as they reach a curb. He turns to her curiously, watching her as she takes his poem out of her bag.

"Your poetry," she says, holding the folded paper up towards him. His eyes widen when he sees it, and evidently, from the shocked look on his face, it wasn't meant for her in the first place.

Disappointment hurts so much worse than she thought it could.

"I-" he starts stupidly.

"It was in my book," she continues in a rushed manner. "You know, the one I left on the train that day?"

"Oh," he says as he takes it from her. His face is a million different shades of red, and she wonders if she's embarrassed him.

"I hope you don't mind, but I read it. I um- I thought it was a note, or something. For me. It's stupid I know. And I'm sorry, but- but it's very good. You- you're very talented."

"What?" he asks dumbly. "Wait. You think I _wrote_ that?"

He looks surprised, almost amused, and she stumbles on her words.

"You- didn't you?"

He shakes his head, grinning down at her.

"It's Byron."

"Who?"

"Lord Byron. He's a poet. He wrote that."

"Oh."

Now she feels even dumber than she did before. He probably thinks she's an idiot. He's probably one of those Lit majors, a real intellectual who reads poetry and drinks coffee, and now thinks that she's just some naïve, sheltered girl who knows nothing about culture. He doesn't look like the type, but looks can be deceiving you know.

"Are you," she starts, searching for something to say. For _anything_. "Are _you_ a poet?"

The snort that leaves his mouth surprises her.

"Hardly. I'm-" Is he _blushing_? "I'm a drummer. Actually, I'm in a band, and we're trying to expand our songwriting. Sam, he's our lead, and he's been forcing all this poetry crap down our throats for 'inspiration' or whatever."

"Oh," she says. He's blushing again, and it puts her at ease as she laughs. "Is it working?"

"Hell no," he scoffs "Everything I've produced so far either sounds like it's from the eighteenth century or a rhyme some five year old kindergartener just made up."

He grins when she laughs again, leaning back against pedestrian crossing sign.

"I guess I'm more the music guy than the words guy."

"You compose?" she asks. He shrugs shyly.

"A little, here and there."

"I'm a singer," she tells him proudly. "We're both musical!"

He chuckles, nodding his head.

"I know," he says, eyes widening when he realizes his words.

"You know?" she asks, surprised. He straightens up, eyes reflecting his panic while she looks up curiously. "You know that I sing?"

"I'm not a stalker," he says quickly. "I swear. I just- we take the same train every morning. You used to sing a lot. You know, until a bunch of people filed that complaint."

"You- you've- but I've never noticed you before," she says. He smiles at that.

"Yeah, I know. I mostly stand at like the far end, near the emergency exit."

"Oh."

"You just- you have a pretty a voice."

"Thank you," she mumbles, blushing. It's stupid, really. Everyone compliments her on her voice, but for some reason with him, it feels different. Better. His face is the reddest she's ever seen as he looks away from her, nose scrunched up in annoyance while his hand grabs the back of his neck.

"I've always wanted to talk to you," he mutters in embarrassment. "But I just didn't have the guts to do it, until last week."

She feels something in her chest blooming at his confession, her lips breaking into a small smile that turns quickly into a playful beam.

"When I caught you looking?" she teases. He chuckles, nodding. "I looked for you, you know. The day after. And the one after that."

He smiles at her admittance, pushing away from the pole to shuffle closer towards her.

"Yeah, I was down with a fever for a few days," he says quietly as he stands close to her. He's so tall that he looms over her. She cranes her neck upwards, eyes focusing on the way his are looking down at her intently.

"What about this morning?" she asks. "Were you watching me sleep?"

"I- You make me sound like some creepy swimfan dude," he says, wrinkling his nose. "I wanted to give your book back, I just- I didn't want to wake you. But then I had to get off, so I just asked that lady sitting next to you to do it."

She looks up at him, the shy way he's not looking her in the eye again boosting her confidence.

"Chicken," she whispers playfully. He catches her gaze, startled by teasing tone. "You were just too scared to talk to me, weren't you?"

She moves closer towards him, the tips of their shoes touching as his eyes start to crinkle in amusement.

"I guess you caught me."

"You have nothing to be afraid of you know."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I'm a _very_ friendly person."

"You really are," he says, his tone teasing as he grins down at her. He really is very handsome. Even more so up close. She beams up at him, holding out her hand.

"My name's Rachel. Rachel Berry."

"Hi Rachel," he says, laughter in his voice as she takes her hand. His skin is warm to the touch, and she feels the rough pad of his fingers grazing the back of her knuckles acutely. It's like a million volts of electricity coursing through her. "Call me Finn. Finn Hudson."

Xxx

They reach the edge of her street and she's disappointed. The walk home has never felt this short before. She's learned that he's a junior at NYU, majoring in music and that he's been in his band for close to six months now ("We're almost good these days"). He's from Lima, Ohio, and he never wants to go back there. He knows that she was home-schooled, that she's eighteen but she graduated early a year ago, and that her parents are allowing her a year of sabbatical. She's reaching the end of her year-long leave, and she'll be enrolling into Julliard in the fall.

"This is my stop," she says brightly. They both stop at the stoop of her apartment and she stands in front of him with her hands on her sides, looking up at him expectantly.

"So I'll see you tomorrow?" he asks, grinning down at her. She nods spiritedly.

"Same train, same time?" she jokes.

"It's a date."

Her beam widens, and so does his grin as they stand in silence for a few more seconds. Her heart is beating wildly in her chest as she looks up at him, and before she could chicken out, she leans up to stand on her tiptoes, pressing her lips against his cheek.

"Okay see you bye," she mumbles quickly, blushing furiously as she turns around to run up her steps. She reaches the door when he calls her name. Rachel turns shyly, catching his eyes. His grin is a mile wide as he holds up the folded paper she gave him.

"I think I found that inspiration," he tells her before he turns, and walks away.

Xxx

She sighs as she finds herself being pushed into the train.

Even after all these years, she still _hates_ the subway. Nothing good ever comes from being in the subway.

Vaguely, she feels fingers creeping down her back and stiffens as they make their way to curve around her hips. She turns her body around swiftly, glaring up at the person in front of her.

"Are you aware that you're accosting me?" she demands accusingly. The crinkle of his warm brown eyes and his dimples breaks her character as he grins, wrapping his arm fully around her to rest his palm against her slightly swollen belly.

"You like it when I accost you," he mumbles teasingly, leaning down to kiss her. She hums in approval, pressing herself closer, when someone pushes her and she staggers against him. Finn pulls away, glaring at the man responsible.

"Hey, careful! She's carrying precious cargo here."

"What do you mean I'm _carrying_ precious cargo?" she demands in mock anger, as he pulls her towards an empty seat (It wasn't empty a second ago. But Finn's getting pretty good at sending teenage boys those evil eyes).

"I take that back," he says with a grin while she sits. "_I'm_ carrying precious cargo."

She smiles in satisfaction and leans back in her seat, one hand wrapped around his as he stands in front of her. She hates to admit it when she's wrong, but she's willing to bend the rules this time.

The subway really isn't that bad.

* * *

_**A/N: The poem used above is called She Walks in Beauty by, you guessed it, Lord Byron**_


End file.
